


The Greatest Hunter

by youwillbefoldingstars



Category: Muse (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Dystopian, F/F, Genderswap, Inspired by 'Drones', Minor Character Death, Multi, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-04-21 04:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4814144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youwillbefoldingstars/pseuds/youwillbefoldingstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The greatest hunter will survive alone, with no-one left to love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He waits.  
From the opposite site of the street, he watches a small terracotta coloured cottage darkened by the shadows of a quarter-crescent moon. Squeezed between two larger houses, it would have been considered ‘homely’ back when he was young. Back thirty years ago, when the state of the world was very, very different.  
He rests on the rusted remains of what was once a lamppost, his eyes darting between the footpath and the cottage’s windows. It would be surprising to see someone outside their home this late in the evening, particularly after the announcement of a Region-wide curfew just days before. ‘No-one is to remain outside the walls of their residence between sunset and sunrise,’ the official statement ran, ‘so to ensure your safety in the event of a external rebel attack.’

E-Region has not been attacked. Not yet, at least. The rebels had hinted an offensive for months; taunting the Nation with mind games and propaganda, trying to outsmart the Government with trade offers and promises.  
Trade with what?, thinks the figure, They have nothing to trade with.  Everything the world created, belonged to the Nation. That was what was decreed those forty years ago, as the Earth lay dying under the heavy hands of the seven continents; depleting resources, declining sea levels, heating atmospheres. A true tragedy of the commons!, lamented each continent’s leaders as they signed the dotted line of the International Establishment and Redistribution Act. No longer trusted with their own sustainability, the scarce remaining resources of each were to be pooled into emergency supply for one great Nation, with one great Government run by seven presidents. The two continents that had been Eurasia were divided up into seven Regions, A through G; and half of the global population was selected to be relocated to their designated Region.

Most of the world moved, and fell into the emergency care of the Nation’s Government- a central nervous system run by seven leaders, each representing the interests of their Regions. Under their vigilant eye, the Nation was fair yet strict; the Regions began to collectively nurse what had been Eurasia back to life. Thirty-five years ago, the pool of emergency resources remained relatively untouched; and everyone was happy.  
However, there remained the others. Left on their own dying continents, with no governments in control, the unchosen began to grow angry. Why had their grain, their running water, their oil been taken away from them? Why had they been so unlucky as to be left behind in an environmental wasteland, whilst one corner of the world was reborn? Thirty-three years ago, the Rebel Control was founded; a counter-agreement between those remaining survivors, the unlucky ones, to wrestle back control of what was taken from them. 

Thirty years ago, the Rebels made it to the Nation’s outskirts.  
Thirty years ago, the Rebels attacked B-Region; town by town, murder by murder, in a fury of gunfire.  
Thirty years ago, the Great Land War began.  
The soldier breathed out, his deep sigh creating smoke in the frosty night air. That is what every child of the Nation is taught in school. He remembers being a child too; he was seven when his town in inner A-Region had been raided. A Nation soldier had taken him from his mother’s side as she lay dying; years later, he had been trained to become a solider, destined to do just the same.  
That is all he can remember of his distant past.  
That’s all they want him to remember. 

The soldier checks the street once more for movement, before crossing the road and sidling up to the front fence of the cottage. Pulling his coat close to him, he jumps easily over the rusted front gate of the cottage, and strides up to its front window. Unsurprisingly, the curtains are not closed; in light of the previous day’s Governmental broadcast, reminding all citizens to keep their windows open so to ‘remain ever vigilant and alert to unannounced rebel attacks.’ A good, law abiding family, he thinks. Doing exactly what’s best for the Nation. He carefully peers into the house. There is a weathered dining room table with handmade wooden chairs surrounding it, there is a bench-top covered with dirty dishes and pots. Water is scarce, hence cleaning is a rarity- the time of spotless dishes and 1950s-style housework was certainly not now. There is no electricity; waxy stubs of candles are dotted around the room, most likely burnt-out earlier in the night.  
Everything is primitive.  
Luxury is not an option.  
 Just as the war has made it. 

The soldier smiles slightly, and steps away from the window. He paces quickly to the side of the cottage, the dead grass (once a green lawn) softly crunching under his feet. The architectural plans that he had studied told him of a bedroom to the right of the dining room, just in front of the bathroom. His suspicions are confirmed as his searching hands find a windowsill.  
The soldier notes that again, the room’s curtains are open. He peeks in.  
Curled up amongst the standard issue sheets lies a small, sleeping body. It lies with its back to the window; all that can be seen in the darkness is the rise and fall of its side as it breathes, in and out, in and out.  
It looks boyish.  
The soldier pauses for a moment, a slight ripple of panic racing through him. He was not aware that this family had a son; or at least, a son that was registered as part of the Nation’s family records.  He was only here for a daughter.  
He pulls back his sleeve and quickly presses the side button of his wrist apparat. The screen lights up; he directs its luminescent glow away from the window, shielding the device with his other hand as he types in his ID, followed by the surname of the family and their region code. Perhaps he had the wrong house?  
Within seconds, pictures of the family flash onto the screen. A smiling mother and her husband, both natives to E-Region, and their two daughters. One with brunette bangs and a warm grin; and the other, brooding blue eyes and a thick buzzcut.  Ah, he thinks. Jumping to conclusions.  
He deactivates the apparat and slides his sleeve back over its face, knowing that he is in the right town. His gaze returns to the sleeping girl; she has turned over in the midst of a restless sleep, her eyes closed and her expression blank. She is thin, a mere slip underneath the bed sheets; although after thirty years at war, everyone is. Her shoulders are broad, her jaw sharp.  
From what he can see in the moonlight, she is the perfect candidate.

The soldier steps back from the window. He breathes in deeply, tilting his head and staring up at the quarter-crescent moon that hangs above him. With every mission, he always feels a pang of remorse. He knows that won’t remember anything after it is completed; he only of his work through word of mouth and wary praise from others in his division. They say that as soon as he hears his name, he becomes something vicious; something else.  
He doesn’t know how, or why it happens. It’s just a part of the job as a soldier.  
Just a part of what his handler has made him into. 

With three quick button presses on his apparat, he dials a number and raises his wrist to his ear, waiting for an answer.  
Two rings, and then.  
‘Headquarters operator, how may I assist you?’  
He mumbles out a quick sequence of identification codes into the apparat, and within seconds is connected.  
The deep, rasping voice that answers the call needs no introduction.  
‘Is that you?’  
The soldier closes his eyes and exhales; just the sound of his voice is able to take control over him, let alone his command.  
‘Yes.’  
He speaks again. ‘Are you ready?’  
The soldier can already feel his vision blurring; slowly, slowly, with every word. He anticipates.  
‘Yes.’  
There is a moment’s silence, before the voice commands.  
‘Go, Wolf.’

 And he is away.  Upon hearing his name, the soldier instantly begins to change. The hairs on the back of his neck bristle as if they were fur; his mouth begins to turn upwards in a wolf-like snarl, baring teeth between lips scarred from a hundred battles fought. His thoughts become red-tinged and animalistic; his handler’s word turning him from man into killer, just as he had been trained to do. With his name comes his metamorphosis into the lone wolf; the sly, fast mutt that hunts in the dead of night, stealing children and creating chaos out of still, midnight calm. This was the name that his handler had given him; the name that his handler had used to shape him, control him.    
He was no longer just a soldier from A-Region.    
His transformation is complete.

The wolf turns back towards the house’s darkened window. He stares once more at the small sleeping girl, balled up tightly in blankets; but with every moment he stares, she becomes less and less human. She is nothing but prey- just as the other girls were when he took them, and just as he was when he was snatched from his mother.  
The voice from the apparent grows impatient. ‘Wolf, I trust you. Do as you are told.’  
The wolf licks his lips, stepping back from the window and drawing his coat’s hood up around his face. This is an easy task; it is what he’s been programmed to do from when he was a boy, after all. No remorse. No empathy. He is not himself. He cannot disappoint his handler.  
Raising the apparat to his lips, he growls a reply.  
’Don’t worry. I’ve got her.’


	2. Chapter 2

Every time I fall asleep, there are nightmares.  
 They are always the same. A dark room with a singular window; no light from outside, save the luminescence from the rising moon and the occasional flicker of a dead streetlamp. I am always walking, too- dragging my dream fingertips across the shadowed walls as I pace in a circle, slowly mapping the interior of the room. Most nights, I am barefooted and clothed in blue nightgown, the scarce moonlight creating a wavering shadow as I move.  It’s like I am an animal in a cage that I can’t break out of.  
As soon as I walk towards the window of the room (for some reason, it’s always the window) a panicked feeling comes over me. My dream body is telling me to stop, to stay away from an unknown danger that lies beyond the other side of the glass.  
Yet my dream feet keep moving, the panicked feeling increasing with every step. By the time I reach the windowsill (what seems like an eternity), my throat is choked and I am shaking. I stop, raising my eyes slowly to look out, knowing that something is very, very wrong.  
Then it happens.  
A bristling, monstrous _thing_ crashes through the window, leaping towards me and shattering glass in a million directions. Glistening fragments lodge into my bare skin as I scream, the sheer force throwing me backwards. Everything becomes red as the animal approaches, growling menacingly; blood begins to trickle onto my clean blue nightgown, my vision blurring. I shuffle back against the wall, screaming over and over for help; but no-one hears.  
No-one ever hears.  
I guess no-one hears you scream in nightmares.  
The monster keeps advancing on all fours, its shoulders raised and its teeth bared, ready to attack. I can’t pull my stare away from it; it is demonic and frightening and the stuff of Hell, yet I can’t look away. All I can do is keep screaming out for help, my heart throbbing in my chest.  
The last thing I see is two red eyes, and the razor-sharp points of the monster’s teeth as he roars. And then- always right as the monster is about to strike- I am jolted awake, kicking away my sweat drenched sheet and shaking.

It’s fucking scary.

I don’t think I’ve been able to sleep properly for… well, I don’t know how long. Every time night falls, I am too scared to close my eyes lest the monster comes to attack me again. He comes anyway, when I finally succumb to sleep in the early hours of the morning; but my staying awake keeps him at bay in the meantime. In the end, day and night time just blur into one nightmare-tinged delirium in which I am seemingly perpetually suspended.  
Fucking _great._  
 The doctor told me that the nightmares are a post-traumatic stress reaction, and that my subconscious is ‘simply playing on my darkest memories to scare me’. It makes sense, really; according to the records the Government has on hand, the town in which I grew up was attacked by the Rebel Control and razed to the ground in the dead of night. Apparently, nothing is left there besides some firebombed buildings and the crumbling ashes of homes; they did a thorough job of burning every cottage down whilst people slept inside, mine included.  A small, seaside town in the southern region of E-Region, set along the coast and filled with the smell of salt and sand. It would have been the perfect in-point for the rebels to start their attack on what used to be England.  
From what I can remember, and remember correctly, at least.  
That’s also what the doctor told me- I haven’t been able to remember a lot, because I can’t. Partial retrograde amnesia, apparently; meaning that I can still remember some things about myself. I know was born in E-Region, and that I’ve lived there all my life; I know that I am a part of the Nation’s third generation, born ten years into the Great Land War, and that the Rebel Control is the enemy. I know that my favourite colour is green, that I can play guitar, that I am too skinny for my clothes, that my blue eyes came from my father and my brown hair came from my mother.  But I can’t remember their faces.  
I should be able to remember who my parents were- that’s one of the most crucial core memories a person can have, right? From the moment you’re born, when you look up into their beaming, happy faces, you begin to register who mother and father are. Your first words are usually directed at one of them in the form of a bumbled ‘Dada’ or ‘Mama’; you fight with them during your teenage years, you live with them, you are guided by them.  
But somehow, the rebels managed to erase them all from my memory. Completely. I am told that during the raid on our hometown, they smashed their way into our home and killed the both of them with point blank shots to their heads as they tried to defend themselves. They set our house alight, just like all the others in the town, and had assumed there were no survivors- one town demolished, and one step closer to taking down the Nation.  
Apparently, Government soldiers had found me passed out from smoke inhalation underneath my bed. Limp and barely breathing, they carried me out of my burning home- past the bleeding bodies of my parents and the walls of fire that had engulfed my little town- and took me to the Nation’s biggest hospital via helicopter. 

The last survivor, I am. No family, no parents, no memory. Jesus, what a trope.

The only thing I know of my dead parents is their family name. That I can ascertain from the barcode on my left wrist; it tells me that my name is Matilda Bellamy, and that I was born twenty years ago. It’s one of the first things I do remember clearly- waking up in a white-washed, windowless room, surrounded by the reassuring rattles and beeps of a thousand machines designed to keep me alive. I remember looking down at my wrist, only to see a freshly tattooed barcode amongst the IVs cords and tubes, still red and bleeding. No idea who tattooed it, mind you- the blonde haired nurse that entered the room shortly after offered absolutely no ideas.  
‘Where am I?’ I had asked, my voice raspy as she checked each machine and every saline drip. She smiled a sad, sanitised smile; the same she gives to every patient. ‘You’re in Head Hospital, love.’  I had been confused, my memory still groggy. ‘H… Head Hospital?’ The nurse tilted her head in confusion as she checked the monitor at the end of my bed. It would be rare to have a patient not know of the state-of-the-art medical centrepiece of the Nation, let alone how they got here- the Government had spent millions refurbishing it about ten years ago. A sympathetic, apologetic look then came over her, before she disappeared out of the room and closed the door behind her.  
After the nurses’ leaving, I remember the endless beeps of the room’s machines lulling me back into a deep, dreamless sleep. My mind was too exhausted to think about where I was, or how I had ended up there; that puzzle could all be left for later.  
Next thing I remember is a man voice, gentle and fatherly, waking me. As I faded into consciousness, his words became clearer and clearer; I realised he was calling out a name.  
‘Matilda? Matilda, can you hear me?’  
It was my name; the name from my barcode tattoo.  
I slowly opened my eyes. Everything was blurry at first, yet with time my vision became clearer. The blonde nurse had returned- she was standing at the far side of the bed with the same sympathetic look on her face. Yet this time, she had brought with her an older doctor who was dressed in a long coat, a stethoscope around his neck and a mess of grey, scraggly hair on his head. He was standing over me, calling out my name and observing me as I woke.  
‘Matilda?’  
I looked down at my wrist barcode again, reading the name that was tattooed underneath. I couldn’t remember being called that before, but if it said so…  
‘Yeah… I’m Matilda.’  
The doctor’s expression immediately lit up; obviously my recognition of my name was some sort of progress. He looked over at the nurse, who was quickly typing notes into the electronic pad she was carrying and nodded, before returning his watchful eyes to me.  
‘Matilda, my name is Doctor Glenn Rowe. I’m one of the chief doctors here in the Nation’s Head Hospital. I’m here to look after you, and assist your medical recovery.’  
I nodded weakly- my throat was way too dry to talk any more that what was necessary, and there was no chance I was going to lift my head off the pillow anytime soon.  
‘You’re probably very confused about what’s going on.’  
I nodded again, my eyes darting from the doctor down to my hands; their backs were covered in IV drip lines and medical tape. I was too afraid to lift them up from the blanket, at risk that I would pull something out.  
An awkward pause, before Doctor Rowe continued. ‘What’s going to happen now, is that you’ll be taken for a full body examination and cell regeneration de-analysis - this is normal for any patient, don’t worry. After that I’ll explain to you exactly what’s happened to you, and why you’re here - any questions you may have. Is that alright, Matilda?’  
I croaked out a ‘yes’.  
‘Good. So, Nurse Anderson and I are now going to lift you up and place you in this wheelchair, okay ?’  
I glanced over at the shiny chrome chair that the nurse had trundled into the room. I had no idea if i could walk or not; as far as I could see and feel, I still had all ten fingers, ten toes, two arms and two legs. Whether they worked was a different story; something I would later discover during Doctor Rowe’s ‘full body examination’, I supposed.  
‘O… okay’, I groaned.  
At that, the doctor and nurse approached me, sliding their hands underneath me and lifting me effortlessly out of the hospital bed and into the seat of the wheelchair. From there, they detached me from many of the beeping life support machines and drips, before Doctor Rowe pushed me out of my hospital room and down a long, grey corridor. I vaguely remember multiple other doors being open and shut, and multiple other nurses and doctors bustling past me; yet, the thought of movement made me dizzy, so I shut my eyes tight and hung onto the wheelchair’s armrests. 

————

 

I remember the full body examination being relatively uneventful. I reopened my eyes when I was wheeled by Doctor Rowe into another white room, and helped to shakily stand in between two light boxes that scanned my body completely, up and down, checking for any internal injuries or imperfections. Once that was complete, the doctor helped me back into the chrome wheelchair and trundled me into yet another white room, this time furnished with an accompanying white desk, a white chair and a shiny chrome name plate bearing his full name. He placed me at one side of the desk, locking the wheelchair’s wheels so I couldn’t roll away, and sat down behind the other, pulling multiple electronic desktops into his line of sight.  
The cell regeneration process had apparently worked perfectly- the wounds that I had had when I had arrived at Head Hospital had completely healed, without any scar tissue or bruising. On top of that, my examination had been mostly all clear- however, the one injury I had sustained (and that the full body scan had confirmed) was, as Doctor Rowe put it, ‘the most severe case of partial retrograde amnesia that I had ever seen’. I remember him hypothesising that it could have been caused by some sort of blunt head trauma during the brutal rebel attack on my home town.  
‘Rebel attack?’ I had asked.  
It was then that the doctor explained what had happened to my parents and I. How our seaside, E-Region home had gone up in flames; how rebels had captured the town and burnt it to dust; how Nation forces had taken me to safety. I remember a steady stream of quiet tears beginning to run down my cheeks as he told me every detail with as great a delicacy as he could; by the time he was finished, I was a mess. My head had collapsed into my hands; every single bit of me was shaken and weak. I had nowhere to go, no family to go back to, no personal belongings; I was on my own in the middle of a raging war, with half a memory and barely a name.  
It was the beginning of my new life; and the end of my old. 

Doctor Rowe extended a hand across his desk as some form of consolation.  
‘I’m sorry, Matilda. I really am.’  
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, before turning my wrist over. I looked down at my wrist again; the tattoo was most definitely permanent. Multiple lines of different thicknesses, making up a rough barcode; with my name, or what was now my name, and ID number written mechanically underneath.  
_Matilda Bellamy. 09061978._  
‘This means that you’re a ward of the Nation now, Matilda.’  
I remember looking up at Doctor Rowe, my expression confused, my eyes puffy and tired from crying.  
‘A ward of the…?’ He smiled sadly, standing up behind his desk and moving over towards me as he began. He crouched besides my wheelchair and placed a single, sympathetic arm on my shoulder; meant to comfort in the most clinical way possible.  
‘You’re property now, Matilda. You belong to the Nation.’


	3. Chapter 3

The time following my diagnosis in Head Hospital became somewhat of a sterilised, lifeless blur. Days faded in and out without relativity; nights meant a dark room, illuminated with a thousand electric stars, flickering on and off with each beep and moan.   
All that I was certain of was that I felt myself growing stronger and stronger. And that, you know, I had become an orphaned Nation ward with half a memory and a tattooed wrist.   
Completely standard.   
After a few monotonous days, Doctor Rowe took me back into his sterile office and declared me fit enough to be discharged. This was despite the nightmares that started to creep into my dreams every night, and despite me waking up to my screaming and the sound of my rapid heart rate beeping through the room’s monitors. As long as I was physically sound, he had said, I had no need to stay under medical observation; the psychological side effects would most likely fade out over time as I came to terms with my ‘situation’.  I guess there was no official ‘cure’ for night terrors- at least, none that the Government’s medical team could provide. I’d have to figure that one out myself; just like everything else I had seemingly forgotten before I was rescued.   
Nurse Anderson entered my hospital room shortly after, and began to disconnect me from the remaining few electronic machines that surrounded my bed. She was gentle in her actions, deftly pulling out each needle and stopping the pinprick of subsequent blood with a well-trained thumb. She then helped me to stand- I had become a lot stronger over the past few days, almost as good as new- and helped me into the room’s small shower ensuite and   
‘I’ll be waiting outside- you have a three minute allocation of water. Knock when you’re finished, okay?’ I wish I could have sat underneath the shower for hours; perhaps the soft rumbling of the water on my bare shoulders would have lulled me to sleep and kept the nightmarish monster at bay. A vague memory unexpectedly sprang to mind- a time when resources weren’t as scarce and when water use was less regulated, when I was relatively young and allowed to splash around in the family bath. The thought took me completely by surprise; I hadn’t expected any memories of my childhood to come back to me that quickly. Maybe my brain was healing; maybe this retrograde amnesia shit would be over sooner than anticipated, and I would be able to remember my parents and my home and my life and…  
The water shut off as I lay sobbing, curled up on the shower floor, whispering to myself over and over that whatever this was, whatever had happened, whatever lay ahead, I would figure it out.   
I would be okay.

A few beats, before Nurse Anderson’s uncertain voice came from outside the door.   
‘Are you okay, Matilda?’  
I paused for a moment, before wiping my nose with the back of my hand and shakily rising to my feet. ‘I’m okay,’ I called back.  
I was careful not to slip on the wet tiles, stepping out from the shower and grabbing the standard issue towel that had been left on the bench for me. I dried off the droplets off my skin, unsure of what was water and what were tears, and rubbed the towel through my hair. I could remember that I detested having long hair, and that I had been a tomboy all my life- between my naturally stick thin frame, hardest jaw and my androgynously short hairstyle, I could almost be mistaken for a boy.   
I wrapped the towel around my body and cautiously knocked on the back of the bathroom door. Milliseconds later, a small package of clothing slid underneath the door; vacuum packed and sealed with a sticker bearing the Nation’s familiar green and blue circular logo.   
_‘Inopia subpressum’. Scarcity towards recovery._  
Ripping the package open revealed a loose smock shirt and a pair of elastic waisted pants, presumably standard issue on behalf of the Nation. Both were way, way too large for me upon wearing them; however, it’d have to do, considering that I had no clothes of my own (as far as I was aware, everything I had was burnt to ash or ripped off my body when I arrived in Head Hospital). One of the disadvantages of being a short, slip-thin beanpole, I supposed.  
I opened the door of the bathroom to find Nurse Anderson sitting on the edge of my hospital bed, electronic tablet again in hand. She looked up at me as I stood in the doorframe, giving me a once over to assess that I indeed was okay, and then nodded once before standing.   
‘They’ll be here to take you soon.’  
My head cocked to the left slightly in confusion as I walked over to my bed and sat down on the edge. ‘They?’   
The nurse again smiled her sympathetic smile as she reached towards the door handle of the room; for some reason, she had a slightly scared glint in her eye, a slight apprehensiveness before she answered. ‘They, being your new family, Matilda. The Nation.’  
I looked down into my lap, bluntly reminded again of the reason why I was in Head Hospital in the first place. ‘Ah. Right.’  
When I looked up again, Nurse Anderson had slipped out of the room.   
I was alone again; alone with nothing but my half a memory and my tattooed, barcoded wrist.

————

I don’t remember falling asleep on the side of the bed- sleep must have crept up on me and snatched me from consciousness when I blinked too slowly, my eyelashes dragging on their bottom lids out of sheer sleep-deprivation.  
I do remember, however, being jolted awake by the sound of marching feet resonating from down the corridor. Each footstep seemed to sound closer and closer to my room; what sounded like a pack of heavy-footed elephants raucously stampeding down a linoleum pathways.   
I instinctively jumped up from the side of the bed, unsure of what was happening yet steady on my feet. I cocked my head to the side, listening intently; the lack of sleep, combined with the drugs that had been pumped into me over the past few days, seemed to make my hearing all the more keener.   
There was a millisecond of quiet, where no footsteps echoed, before there was a loud knock on my door.   
‘Ward zero-nine-zero-six-one-nine-seven-eight, are you present?’  
I looked down at my wrist, and the barcode that had been (at some unknown point) inked into my skin.  
Matilda Bellamy, 09061978.  
I repeated the number over and over to myself in my head, almost as a comfort mechanism. I supposed, with a bittersweet feeling in my stomach, that I would have to memorise it somehow- that number, for all intents and purposes- was my identity now.   
The voice came again from outside; controlled, authoritative. ‘Ward zero-nine-zero-six-one-nine-seven-eight, are you present?’  
I backed myself into the far corner of the hospital room, balling my fists as part of an instant flight or fight response. I remember distinctly thinking that whoever, or whatever, was at my door was kind enough to knock before entering; whether that was a decision on their part, or on the part of Head Hospital, I didn’t want to think about. My mind began to race- perhaps this was the ‘they’ that Nurse Anderson had worryingly spoke about before she had slipped out of my room? The fear that had appeared in her eyes in that moment hadn’t gone unnoticed. I suddenly became petrified of what lay on the other side of that hospital door; my breath started getting faster, my heart racing out of my chest. I could feel the nightmarish monster from my dreams crawling into my reality, his glaring red eyes staring at me from across the room, preying on my vulnerabilities like always.   
What could I do, but face whatever was behind that door?  
’Present’, I whimpered, shielding myself with my hands- indeed, I had nothing else.    
The room’s door swung open to reveal an entourage of soldiers, yelling loud commands with harsh expressions on their faces. Each and every one of them wore blue and green uniforms- the standard colours of the Nation- and every single every one of them seemed to push forward towards me, through the tiny doorframe and into the tiny hospital room, in a giant rampant huddle. All I could do was scream and collapse into the corner, closing my eyes tighter and hyperventilating as they surged towards me. It was like my nightmare all over again, with each towering soldier metamorphosing into individual manifestations of the monster with those bright red eyes and grinning teeth, and it was all I could see, and I couldn't escape, and…   
I blacked out. 

————  
 By the time I came to, I quickly realised that I was not in Head Hospital anymore.   
The first thing I remember noticing was being strapped tightly into a seat of some sorts. I was still wearing the standard issue clothing that Nurse Anderson had supplied with me, and my hands and feet weren’t restrained; it was just my torso that had been locked in by a seatbelt.  
 _Seatbelt?_  
I quickly looked down at my wrist again and saw my barcode and ID number. I had taken to checking it every now and again, to make sure that I was still in touch with reality and that I wasn’t stuck in the midst of a nightmare. I had noticed that my barcode didn’t appear on my wrist whilst I was dreaming; only when the situation was real, and reality was tangible.   
_But I don’t remember being moved…_  
I took a sharp breath in, the memory of the Nation soldiers suddenly appearing in front of my eyes and sending a ripple of fear and panic through me. I had forgotten about what they had reminded me of as I had been balled up against the room’s wall, and had forgotten that that vision had triggered my panic attack and had made me…  
 _Fuck._  
I let go of the breath and exhaled heavily, trying to calm my heart rate down and dispel the anxiousness that had come over me. No more of that, I reasoned with myself; my nightmares would stay hidden in the daytime, as much as I could control it so.   
It was minute or two before I was okay again, and able to think rationally. I reasoned that I had been taken out of Head Hospital by that sheer mass of Nation soldiers, and had been moved into the back of a steadily moving van. At least, it felt like it was steadily moving; the windows were completely blackened, meaning that I could see absolutely nothing of the outside world. I also appeared to be the only passenger, save for the driver I assumed was manning the wheel.   
I thought for a moment before calling out cautiously.  
‘Hello?’   
There was no change in the van’s movement; it continued to rumble along its path to its destination. The driver obviously hadn’t heard me.   
I called again. ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ Again, no change and no voice in response. I sat for a moment, relatively stumped; there was no panel between the back of the van and the driver’s seat which would be blocking the sound of my voice. I could see both back doors of the van had been locked, and that there was no sunroof…  
I looked up to the roof of the van and saw a small camera, its singular blinking green eye locked on me. I paused immediately, frozen in my movements.  
Someone was watching me.   
After a moment of standing stock still, like a deer in the headlights, a soft mist began to dissipate from underneath the camera lens, drifting in my general direction.   
‘What the fuck…?’ I breathed, unable to look away as the mist floated towards me, like dust particles drifting on a breeze, enveloping me and infiltrating my eyes, my ears, my nose.  
I instantly began to feel sleepy, my eyes rolling back into my head and my limbs becoming weak, the darkened van slowly slipping away from my sight…

I blacked out again. 

———

The next time I woke, I had found myself lying on a bed in the room I currently occupy.   
Again, I don’t remember being moved at all. After the unknown mist had sprayed from underneath the van’s camera, I had just about collapsed back onto the van’s back seat. Between that point and now - sitting on the side of a metallic silver bed in a metallic silver room with one sealed door, one basin and no windows - I remember nothing.   
I feel like I’m in prison.   
Maybe the soldiers had mistaken me for someone else. Maybe they had stormed into my hospital room, yelling and screaming and ordering, thinking that I was a wanted criminal- or worse, a Rebel spy. I keep thinking, wondering, theorising; how could I have ended up here, of all places? I stand up from the edge of the bed (my bed?) upon which I had been sitting and slowly pad towards the basin that faces me. I had doubted that the basin would relinquish running water freely given the ongoing water resource restrictions, and I was right; a few turns of the shiny chrome tap and absolutely no water pours out.  Fat lot of use that is, then.  I grip either side of the basin and hang my head. Fuck, I had a lot of questions; none of which seemed to be answering themselves. It could hardly help that I could barely remember who I was, let alone where I was or what had happened to me.   
I look down at my left wrist again; the barcode still remained, as permanent as the instant in which it had been (apparently) inked onto me. Another constant check on reality; another bit of reassurance that my mind was still with me, and that my amnesia wasn’t slowly snatching away my active memories as well as my dormant.   
I let go of one side of the basin and ran my fingers over the tattoo, thinking for a moment before speaking aloud; repeating the sentiment I had thought about for god knows how long.  
‘You’ll be okay, Matilda. You’ll be okay.’


	4. Chapter 4

Time passes, but my confusion does not.

I can tell by the systematic, regular rise and fall of the sun through my cell’s solitary window that I’ve been locked in this place for more than a while. There’s nothing really to see outside besides a tall, grey wall, and the smallest slither of sky where wall ends and the heavens begin. Looking up there, I’m able to just see the changing of colours as the sun moves up and down, dawn to dusk, through the usual motions. At least twenty five sunrises and sunsets, almost a month stuck in a room of nothingness with only myself for company.

There’s nothing really to do but count the hours and days away.

The solitary bed is hard, making my nights restless and my back sorer than it has ever been. The toilet only allows itself to be flushed every 24 hours, again due to water restrictions that the Nation implemented years ago; and the basin, despite all this, still refuses to fucking work. The room doesn’t have a mirror either- odd, a basin without a mirror- but I can feel the puffy bags under my eyes and the beginnings of worry lines forming across my face with each passing day.

My days are here, held between these metallic walls.

This is nothing like home- nothing like my home. A home that doesn’t exist anymore, destroyed by bombs; a home that I would never see again.  I would be lying if I said it didn’t get to me just a little. Wiling out your days here with no human interaction, besides guards and the distant, carrying voice from down the (assumed) hallway that stretches beyond the cell’s door. It’s scary, how capable nothingness is at eating you away. Every time my daily ration of food arrives via Nation soldier, I’m reminded how less and less human I’m becoming; how more and more subservient, obedient and submissive my actions are. I obey without incident every time that the soldier emotionlessly requests that I hold my left wrist up to his scanner. Every time, I shield my eyes; the limited light in my cell has caused them to progressively become more and more sensitive to his scanners' light, as it reads the information encoded into my tattooed barcode and verifies my identity.  Identity. Yeah right; if I still have one, after almost losing my mind and ending up here. Maybe that’s why there’s no mirrors in this godforsaken place, so that prisoners- if that’s what we are, prisoners- can slowly but steady withdraw from being human, and psychologically morph into being nothing more than animals. 

 

Today is no different; another day, another period of tortuous self-reflection. Lying on my bed, counting the multiple notches and inconsistencies that dot across the concrete ceiling. 236 at last count; every time I manage to find more, hidden in shadows or obscured by others.

_127 notches… 128 notches… 129 notches…_

I know how many notches dot across my roof; but I still don’t know why I’m locked up here.

_130 notches… 131 notches… 132 notches…_

I don’t even know where ‘here’ is. Government run, of course- explains the Nation soldier that constantly arrives. But for what fucking purpose?

_133 notches… 134 notches…_

I had sworn to myself, at some point, that I would a) find out what was going on, and b) keep myself - and my half-power brain - alive.

_135 not-…_

A sharp, metallic scraping noise elicits itself from the door, interrupting my thought. My gaze quickly darts from the ceiling towards it, my hearing keen- I had learnt to recognise this noise all too well in the time I’ve been stuck here. It’s the sound of each cog, each mechanical part of the door’s lock opening, which usually means a delivery of food by the same ward guard, or the appearance of the same Nation soldier to scan my barcode and assess vitals. The soldier usually comes around less regularly than the ward guard; keeping me alive seems to be more important than keeping me sane in this particular level of hell.

The sound of the door opening continues to resonate off the sullen, concrete walls of my cell; metal scraping on metal, nothing unusual. My door always takes a good minute to unlock any-….

_Hang on._

It’s then that I realise- both ward and soldier usually make their presence a lot more known to me before entering the cell. For all they know, I may have finally lost the plot between this visit and the last- the possibility of my being insane, something that they regularly have to check for. Usually, they call out in the same, predictable way - ‘Ward zero-nine-zero-six-one-nine-seven-eight, are you present?’ - and wait for my compliant, and hopefully sane, reply.

There was no question today.

I sit bolt upright on the side of my bed, suddenly on high alert, my eyes widening and refusing to leave the source of the noise.  

_So who the fuck is at the door?_

After what seems like ages, the lock clicks and the heavy metal door swings open to reveal a Nation soldier, towering and broad and dressed in the same standard issue, blue and green uniform. I notice immediately that he is a different soldier to the one who usually visits me; he has black, straight hair, not brown and curly, and has a slight limp in his stance.

 Plus, he’s not usually accompanied.

Even in the dim light of the cell and outside corridor, I can see that there are two sets of feet standing in my doorframe. There is definitely someone else; another soldier? A ward? Someone else to be complicit in hurting me, drugging me, or dragging me further down into this Inferno-like confinement hell?  

My hackles raise out of instinct, my body tensing like a dog’s and lifting slightly off the edge of the bed. Two people are not part of usual procedure; this is a deviation, which makes me anxious.

Deviations, as I’ve discovered, usually mean bad news for me.

The new soldier speaks, his voice lower in timbre than the others’.

‘Ward zero-nine-zero-six-one-nine-seven-eight?’

I growl of the dark corner of the cell, my fingers digging into the sides of the bed. ‘Yes.’

The soldier pauses for a second, assessing the cell. He then points to the other side of the room- the side with the waterless basin and windowless wall. He instructs the figure behind him, whoever may be, to move.

‘Go.’

But they don’t move.

This time, more forceful. ‘Move.’

But again, the figure doesn’t move.  I grow more curious than anxious.

A beat, before I the soldier grabs the figure by what would be the scruff, and shoves it beyond the doorframe into the dim light of the cell for it to move. It is only then that the intricacies of their shadow become apparent.

My jaw drops slightly.

_It… her._

It’s another girl.

 

She’s tall- taller than my tiny frame, at least- and just a little less lanky. At least, I assume she is- it’s hard to tell with her shoulders hunched, her gaze directed at the floor as she paces defeatedly into the room like a scolded wolf, quivering. The soldier continues to point to the far side of the room, and she follows obediently, quietly, silently; reaching the opposite wall and turning around to face him again. Her long blonde hair conceals half of her face, unkempt and hurriedly swept over one shoulder to be kept out of the way; she anxiously runs her fingers through it, stroke after stroke, her eyes becoming downcast.

The soldier grunts at me from the other side of the room, causing me to divert my gaze from the new girl to him. He stares me straight in the eyes with an authoritative air, jerking his chin back in the other girl’s direction.

‘She stays in here with you now, understand?’

I nod, not willing to ask any questions of the soldier.

‘Understood.’

The soldier’s eyes snap back towards the girl standing in the shadowed corner of my cell. His gaze lingers slightly too long over her before he turns and marches out of the room, closing and re-locking the heavy door behind him.

 

I sit for a moment, confused, still staring at the now-closed door.  

_What the fuck just happened?_

My mind races. I was obviously no longer the only person that was being kept here- new arrivals meant that I wasn’t doomed to be the only person the Nation wanted, for whatever purpose that was yet undiscovered. Fuck, what did they want me for? Not a lot that a girl with half a brain and no family could do for anyone, let alone for the Nation…

I’m brought back into reality by a staccato of soft sniffling from the corner of the room.

_The other girl… shit._

I look back over at the girl- my new cellmate, as the case appears to be. Her eyes remain firmly cast to the ground, standing against the wall, too afraid to move, hands still rapidly meshing through her long blonde hair.

She’s traumatised. Fuck knows what they did to her before she ended up here…

_I should do something._

 ‘Hey’.

The girl stops running her hands through her hair at the sound of my voice, pausing mid stroke. Her breathing grows quicker; and for the first time since she entered the room, she looks at me.

Her eyes are a stormy grey, big and melancholy and currently swollen to the lashes with tears. God, they are distracting, turbulent- the type that if you stared into them for just too long, you’d be left dazed and confused and potentially lost.

At this moment, she was a deer in the headlights- and fate, destiny, whatever the fuck you want to call it- was the truck hurtling on at top speed towards her.

The girl bursts into tears. She lets her face collapse into her open palms, her shoulders trembling. She sinks slowly to the concrete floor, a wilting flower, exhausted.

I stand from the side of the bed, wary in my movements, and start to walk across the cell towards her. Step by step until I’m standing over her, sinking down to her, kneeling next to her, my hand cautiously hovering above the nape of her neck. She tenses up, her sobs slowing momentarily.

‘I promise I won’t hurt you’, I say.

The girl looks up at me again with those big grey eyes, and just for a moment I could see a millions thoughts racing through her mind as she stumbles over them. Her pupils dilate slightly, her irises darting back and forth; analysing if I was friend or foe, someone to be trusted or ignored.

I wished silently that I would end up being the former.

  
_Do I promise I won’t hurt her?_  I wasn’t one hundred percent sure anymore. I had forgotten what true human interaction was like, interaction that didn’t involve military orders and medical analysis, but instead revolved around comfort and emotion and contact, of all things.

I was confident, however, that I could help. That part of my identity hadn’t gone M.I.A- kindness wasn’t subject to survival, despite what the Nation seemed to think.

I stroke the back of the girl’s neck as she cries, wrapping my other arm around her. She shivers and instinctively moves closer to me, wrapping her other arm around me, seeking warmth. Every moment gives way to more shaking; she is wearing the same blue and green pants and top as I am, both of which aren’t exactly conducive to keeping warm.

I give her all the time she needs.

When the crying eventually slows, I move my hand down to the middle of her back and propose sleep.

‘Come with me. You’re shaking.’

I’m shocked I can remember how to be human, after such a long time without; surprised that I can offer someone else comfort, when I thought that part of me had disappeared along with my memories.

I duck my head underneath the girl’s shivering arm and lift both of us slowly off the ground, into a standing position. I walk her towards my bed, essentially holding her upright, guiding her steps. I can feel her tears staining my clothes as we make our way to the edge of the bed, where I gently help her sit.

‘I know it’s only small, but it’ll fit two.’

The girl looks up at me, body shaking with shock tremors, and manages out the smallest of grateful smiles.

A smile that, kinda weirdly, makes me feel safer than ever before.

She lies down on the far side of the tiny, single bed, her golden hair fanning out underneath where her head rests. I crawl up next to her, my body wrapping around hers to keep her warm and to calm her racing mind.  God, human contact like this is strange. I’d forgotten how much I’d missed it. From what the remains of my memory could tell me, I hadn’t slept this close to someone since I was a child, sharing a bed with my vague remembrance of sister. It was nice; it was comforting.

Maybe I was still human after all.

Eventually, the girl’s shaking eases. She drifts off to sleep.

And so do I.

****  



End file.
